azuremew: (you say my name)
[personal profile] azuremew
Title: A Prisoner of History (1/2)
Word Count: 3,053 / 6,215
Pairing: Eames/Robert, Browning/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: angst, bit of alcohol, illness, explicit sex
Summary: Robert Fischer, the funeral, and the presence of Eames that he cannot quite let go.
Author's Note: Beta'd by [ profile] lycanthrophile; this was due to a discussion a while back about how I imagined the possibility of Browning/Eames/Robert being a struggle of power, a balancing act, with Robert being caught in the middle both mentally and physically. Eventually, Browning learns about Eames. Title is from Sia's "I'm In Here"

A/N 2: Light edits were done thanks to [ profile] croik Hopefully, it makes more sense. <3

Grief was not an emotion Robert Fischer was accustomed to. He stood at the funeral, his uncle at his side, and businessmen, board members nearby. A few others were family. He recognized an aunt and her children from a trip to Monaco one summer while his mother was alive. Or at least that was who he thought they might be. Family meant little to him unless they were incorporated into the business like Uncle Peter. It was like an exile from humanity for the sake of prosperity.

And they did prosper, economically. He imagined the graphs, the charts, and documents while the story of his father's life and accomplishment unfolded in a well practiced speech. Countries he had not visited, people he knew only on paper, were part of him now. They would look up to his every word, each step, and he could not be a disappointment.

Not in this single action he intended on once he was back in Sydney.

He wanted the board and press to be there and ready to hear the words of the CEO of Fischer Morrow. There would be no doubts, questions, or misinterpretation to his decision. He wanted them alert and ready to proceed in this new direction.

But from there, he wondered, where would he go?

That notion weighed upon his mind as the priest called him forth to the podium. He cleared his throat and slipped from the hand that lied briefly upon his shoulder. Eye contact, let alone such gestures, were not taken well since landing. There was doubt in his uncle. Realization knotted in his stomach each time he allowed it to process. Uncle Peter, the man he looked up to, found security in, freedom to express his emotions, was nothing but lies.

Now was not the time. He approached the podium and turned to the sea of black clothes and sober faces, of strangers as he spoke foreign words, “My father was never a man of sentiment. Not unless it came in sharing a glass of scotch with my uncle at taking a new department under the family name. At times I wonder if he'd forgotten what that was, the name Fischer Morrow, but then I look back on my first lesson as his son.

“It was a partnership that started this conglomerate. A small, unknown foundation decades ago, but strong and resilient. The iron, he said, echoed in our blood, and was ours alone for the taking. Only we were noble enough to withstand the consequence of our actions by keeping the sense of knowing what was good for the company. It grew like wildfire, but that never changed.”

He paused and looked down, “My father was never a man of sentiment, but he knew how to be a great entrepreneur, and while it was not hugs or band aids that he gave me as a child, I was given, in all honesty, something greater that I hope will honor his legacy. Thank you.”

Silence came in response, but he could see the hints of smiles, sympathies and condolences. None were quite as prominent as Uncle Peter who spoke in his ear once he settled and the priest allowed those that wanted to view the body to have their time. “Your father gave you so much, Robert. It can be overwhelming, as it was when he was ill. We should --”

Robert interrupted him, turned and looked at him. “What, Uncle Peter? We should work on this together?” He sat back and watched a woman sniffle at the open casket. He took in a deep breath and offered, “I suppose we will talk after my announcement to the press.”

Afterward, they left to go to the burial site. Robert took to the Mercedes-Benz CL-Class, door opened and chauffer ready, but he paused at the man in the black suit. The top, two buttons were undone, and he wore no tie, but that was not what distinguished him so. His features were warm and almost gave Robert a hint of comfort.

It never gave way as he approached and nodded to the assistant, “Mr. Forester, I had not expected you to be here.”

“Port and Dunn was a large part of your father's final work, Mr. Fischer, and while I played a small role in it, I thought it was only right that I paid my respects, being that I was in the area for business.”

“Ah, yes, that would explain things,” Robert noted. “I thought I recalled seeing you on the very same flight from Sydney, but you will have to forgive me.”

“Your disdain was expected, in all honesty,” he knew. “I should be the one apologizing, really, but I thought it might be inappropriate to bother you.”

“Yes, I'm sure that it would have been.” Robert looked back at the sea and spotted the face that summoned discomfort just as it had before, in the office, and briefly on the plane. “I should be on my way. The site isn't far, it's next to my mother's, and it would not be right if I was tardy."

Eames nodded, “Of course.” He handed Robert a business card and shook his hand. “If you have a moment before returning to Sydney, we could talk again. For drinks or something less formal.”

“I'd like that, believe me, but I need to get back. My flight leaves tonight." Sorrow suddenly filled him, and he swallowed it back. It was not enough to take away all of his impulses: “But you could . . . join me? I could use a hand in the legal department, have Port and Dunn set it up. You could be in my office by Monday.”

His lips thinned at his decision, “I have a job.”

“I'll pay triple, living expenses, airfare . . .”

“Robert,” Eames said and rested his hand upon the man's arm. “I am truly sorry.”

“For my loss,” Robert scowled. “Not yours.” He twisted and brushed the hand off. Grief was not an emotion he was accustomed to, but in that moment, he felt a sting in his chest and throat that threatened to spill.

It reflected sharply in Eames, but he covered it up more elegantly. Enough that when Arthur joined him seconds after, it never crossed in recognition.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“Nothing to worry about, I can assure you. He was talking about legal matters that suggest change, though.” Eames smiled. “Your part shouldn't take long.”

“If I went by your assurance, I would agree, but it could be anything. A shift in the board, or consolidation. Hardly what Saito demanded for Dom's freedom.”

Eames shrugged, “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Arthur, but as always, it is . . . pointless.” He smirked and took a step down toward the sidewalk, but instead of heading toward the parking lot, he took an unexpected turn.

“Aren't you going to the burial?” Arthur called out as he followed.

Eames waited until they were far off enough to not be heard, “I came, I saw, and from what I gathered, I conquered.” He waved a hand and flicked as if to shoo the pesky fly away. “And now, I must be on my way.” It slipped back into the pocket where the business card was, and next to it, his poker chip that felt less real than what was etched on that card.

Robert could not help but fiddle with the damned thing in the car. It was not until the door opened and Peter sat next to him that he forced a stop to his foolishness.

They did not speak on the journey. The quiet gave time for Robert to regain his composure and become the man he was rather than considered being by the assistant he had drinks and sex with. He remembered the first time he actually noticed Everett Forester.

It was a late evening. Most of the staff had gone, both medical and business. Trained to take care of of his father, this one circumstance was mentioned but hardly on his mind. Lost so completely from reality, his father mumbled and thrashed about, knocked Robert against the jaw with a frail fist that wouldn't even cause a bruise. But it stung, like a slap recalled, and he took two steps back, then froze in stark-white fear.

He heard the footsteps in the office next door, and while he knew it was inappropriate, he yelled, “Help me!”

Eames entered and saw the wide eyes on both father and son, the disassociation and chaos. “What can I do?”

“There, there is a small container in the top drawer,” Robert tried to explain and nodded to the metal case. “A black case, with medicine that will . . .”

He moved to the drawer despite Robert's incoherency came and found what he meant. “I've got it.” The hypodermic needle was found nearby, sleeved in plastic and opened with as much ease as pulling the liquid out into the cylinder and injecting it into the intravenous line.

Robert was more shocked at the display than the initial connection by his delirious father, but Eames added as he tossed the syringe into the red container, “I had a brother that was sick.”

“Oh,” Robert murmured and then tried again, “Sorry, I mean thank you.”

“Sure,” Eames smiled. “And you should be getting some rest too, yeah? You look exhausted, no offense.”

“The nurses were more so,” Robert said. “Round the clock care, and it would seem the majority of the finances are still going to make sure we're set up in New Delhi by August.” He sighed, and they exited to the front office where he slumped into a chair. “Besides, I can't sleep.”

Eames frowned, “You could take the night off; I'll watch over Mr. Fischer and call you if you're needed.” It didn't look like the idea was going anywhere, so he added, “He shouldn't wake until morning with the drug, I can assure you.”

Robert looked at him, surprised. “You know a lot about sedatives from reading a label.”

“I have had trouble sleeping before, too.”

They ended up in his room upstairs, the old space he used to call his own before college. Living in a dormitory had given him the distance, the independence he needed to not ever go back, but there he was, being brought into his bed by a man he didn't even know, “What's your name?”

“Everett Forester,” Eames answered. “From Port and Dunn. They thought you needed another legal assistant considering all of these changes.”

“There aren't many changes,” Robert scowled.

“They anticipate there will be,” Eames replied. “I'll be back in a moment.”

A minute, he returned with two tumblers filled hallway with an amber liquid that burned Robert's nostrils. Eames laughed. “Better than pills, promise, even if it tastes more like shite going down. But as long as you don't drink too much, you won't have much of a hangover compared to the grogginess.”

Robert swirled the glass, watched it slosh a little as he contemplated the notion, “You're here late hours, take my father's liquor, and know your way around needles. Are you sure you're an assistant?”

Eames shrugged, “I've had my odd, corporate moments. Enough experience to know what's best, and you're not going to be any help tired.”

“True,” Robert sighed and tipped it back in one, long swig. It was harsh enough that he sat up and coughed a little, groaned, and turned to his side. “Second thought . . .”

“None,” Eames told him and turned, but Robert stopped him. A hand moved, although clumsily, and found fingers, a wrist, to pull him back. He stumbled at insistence, sat at the edge.


Each move should not have happened, Robert knew. Somewhere, in his mind, it was wrong, but he felt no negative reaction to his hand suddenly gripping lapels, or the lips against his. It felt incredible, actually, and he closed his eyes to not let the tears slip out.

Rather, emotion came in soft cries, moans that filled the room once the covers were put aside and his crinkled shirt was opened. Eames's touch was feather-like, ghosting across him as if he were truly fragile even in this. It made him grab hold of Eames's hair and wrench back, making it just painful enough to assert control. “If you're going to fuck me, Mr. Forester, don't treat me like a doll.”

Eames complied at his stomach, the flat plane of muscles that were bare to the root of his cock, shaven and delicious as he bit down and sucked until bruises bloomed. He continued further and ignored how Robert's cock was hard and wet with come. The legs spread for him with ease, a sense of expectation that he could feel with each drag of his tongue along the perineum and bite of the inner thigh. He lifted his arse, expecting for the wet tongue to sliver its way in and invade parts that would surely unhinge him, but cried out at the blunt finger that pried at his hole.

“Too much?”

“No, no,” Robert panted. It was painful, but he needed it. “Please, con--” his breath hitched, and he realized through gritted teeth that there was no need to beg.

Eames twisted into Robert up to the first knuckle, and could not tell what was better – Robert's face, all taut, or his body as it clenched around. He imagined this was not how proper gentlemen were brought up, and this was a fight for holding that bit of dignity.

Approval, but it was not the man he knew would eventually lie there. Eames spat on his fingers to allow a second in and scissored them slowly to part and push his way in. The silence was a little unnerving, how Robert only breathed deep in ecstasy. It was different, he suspected, from times he followed impulses that were brash and against his father's wishes.

“You're lovely,” he said quietly, and before Robert could question it, his mouth opened as he pulled the bulging cock erect and slid it into his mouth. Soft hums brought quivers, and Robert jumped at the cross of Eames's knuckle against his prostate. “Easy,” Eames whispered into the head. His tongue teased it and lapped greedily at the beads of slick. “I have you.”

It did not take long before Robert spilled onto his belly, Eames's hand fisting him with calloused fingers rough until he was spent. Kisses were stolen, captured the sounds of pleasure as if someone might hear Robert enjoying himself for bloody once. Eames's tongue slid past his teeth and mingled until he felt a dribble of slick against his finger. He started to collect it with one hand while he unbuckled his trousers, but Robert stopped him; the sound of whimpers held back painfully caused him to pause.

Eames leaned close and wrapped his arms around Robert, pulled him up to hold his head into his chest; the cloth became soiled from tears, but he combed through Robert's dark brown hair and cooed,”It's fine, darling. Really.”

“No. None of this is.”

He kissed the shell of Robert's ear and whispered, “Did you hear me before? You're lovely. Don't listen to what those bastard's say, yeah?”

Robert nodded, and slid his hands down beneath Eames's shirt. He pulled around and freed Eames's erection while he stroked it further towards climax.

The wait was almost too much for Eames, so he rested Robert back down and brushed his fingers past the nipples, stomach, and come that coated his fingers enough to slick his hard cock. Lined up, Robert took him almost completely, but Eames did not force it. He pulled back and pushed to a slow rhythm that was quiet and equally intoxicating to the nights spent at bars fucking whores or being fucked hard. Robert was different, and he settled close so that their chests were together, and he could bite and kiss his way through Robert's lovely arch in his neck until the shoulder where he felt his weight and friction caused arousal and orgasm in his partner. It filled every inch of Robert's body, shook him in wracked lust that spilled between them. Fingers kneaded Eames's lower back until it stung, but he did not stop them. He kissed him again until it was over, his own taking silent except for the squelch of cock in the white, hot mess between Robert's legs.

Even then, it felt wrong to leave him there, to go to bathroom to grab a damp towel, take a shower, so he pushed the clothes off and onto the floor and got up to lock the door. “It's Friday night.” He noted out loud and picked up the house phone. Amongst the information collected were numbers. “Hello, Everett Forester speaking. Wondered if you could send someone along to the Fischer residence by early morning. Mr. Fischer needs his rest, so I would advise not disturbing his quarters.”

He climbed into bed, and Robert slid back, into his arms, and clutched his wrists tight enough that they trembled. But it relaxed as Eames kissed along the back of his neck and along his shoulder. “I'm not going anywhere,” he promised. “I'm not leaving you.”

But he had left, Robert thought bitterly until the car stopped. He stepped out and followed the soil path with his uncle to the open plot next to his mother. Knelt there, he placed a dozen, white lilies into the empty, metal vase that had not been used in months. There were specks of wilted stems, dead leaves from his last visit that he picked out. “I'm here, Mother. Early. We're all here. Uncle Peter, everyone.” He swallowed. “Maurice, too.”

Forgive my ignorance.

Date: 2011-05-08 03:16 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Everytime I see the word "Incunabula" I think of Bunnicula. :P

Date: 2011-05-08 04:05 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
eames how could you..
but, first-brilliant as always ^-^
can't wait for part 2

Date: 2011-05-09 01:28 am (UTC)
ext_604523: (cause i will be gone)
From: [identity profile]
Thanks! He'll turn around. <3

Date: 2011-09-14 05:41 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
I had spent, literally, close to an hour looking for some E/A t read, and I am so grateful that I found this. Thank you for alleivating my search. It was wonderful.

Date: 2011-09-14 03:12 pm (UTC)
ext_604523: (<3)
From: [identity profile]
Thank you so much, darling. I know how the search is, so I'm thrilled to hear this comment.

January 2014

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